Life In 221B
by Communication Breakdown
Summary: John Watson didn't find much interesting after the war until he met Sherlock Holmes. During their time together, they've bonded together in a way neither of them have with anyone else. But when John starts feeling more than innocent companionship for Sherlock, will his feelings be returned?
1. An Explanation of the Life of Dr Watson

**An Explanation of the Life of John Watson**

John found the things in his flat mate which used to fascinate him so were now just normalcies in his everyday life. They made dating near impossible, there were random body parts, (most of which were human), strewn about, particularly in the fridge or anywhere near the food they ate, and though he was basically never bored with his flat mate and the shenanigans he was constantly being dragged in to by said flat mate, it could get rather irritating at times. His flat mate was stubborn, childish, wickedly brilliant, cold, calculating, almost robotic young man who believed himself above humanity. And he was beautiful, which did not help John's case in everyone's, (Literally, _everyone's_), strong belief that the two were "secretly" shagging, a special detail which the doctor probably conveniently left out of his little blog but that the public was sure was indeed a true fact. John's endless claims of being straight didn't seem to help him at all. As always no one seemed to really care what the doctor had to say. And his flatmate wouldn't help at all, never denied anything, because he simply didn't care what people thought. At all. So yes, his flat mate was interesting, but also irritating and warranting a good slap every once in a while, though John would never give it to him.

You see, John was pretty much a nobody before he moved into 221B. A nobody that nothing ever happened to. But upon integrating his life with the hectic on of his flat mate, the self-proclaimed consulting detective, ("The only one in existence", he'd said, trying not to seem as if he wanted to impress John necessarily.), who ran around looking at dead bodies, throwing himself into harm's way so John could pull a move out of his arse to save him, or the other way around, running into trouble with the police while simultaneously trying to help them, and plenty of people getting their feelings hurt in the meantime. So life was never boring, but sometimes very trying. And most of the time just amusing.

Because John Watson's flat mate was the infamous Sherlock Holmes.


	2. A Normal Day With Sherlock

**A Normal Day With Sherlock**

Sherlock was incredibly irritated today. John could see that. The only time when his flat mate was obvious about anything was when he was displeased. And damn, was Mr. Holmes displeased today. There was an upside to that, the sleepy doctor Watson thought; Sherlock's so cute when he's restless…or angry…or pouty…

John threw a hand over his eyes. He needed to stop thinking like that, damn it. Now _he _was starting to think he was gay! Which he certainly wasn't. And even if he was, it wouldn't matter because Sherlock barely felt anything, let alone affection. Or love. Or even lust! For God's sake, the man's libido was nonexistent! If anything, he was asexual. John was even starting to believe that Sherlock was not human, like the detective was sure to be the truth. But Sherlock also thought himself to be a sociopath, which John knew was a lie. Even Dr. Watson could see that Sherlock Homes felt…things. Just a little different than anyone else did.

Sherlock had been sitting in the center of the couch- well, not sitting. Crouching. As in putting his feet up on the damn couch, which John hated _so _much, for balance as he perched like a cat on the spot, leaving deep indents in the once firm cushions. John was ignoring him now, ashamed at the silly thoughts in his head- honestly, if anything, it was just a "man crush", or whatever you called it- hiding behind his hands and tapping his feet.

Sherlock suddenly jumped up. John snapped out of it and stared up at Sherlock. He couldn't help but see how tall the detective was. He'd already known how tall Sherlock was, of course, having lived with the mad man for about 2 years. But more and more recently he found himself stricken by the stature of the younger man. Sherlock stood at a good six feet, lanky and pale, with the elegant hands of a violinist and perfectly manicured fingernails. His dark curls were getting a little long, which Sherlock didn't appreciate, but John kind of liked, and it disappointed John because he knew it would get trimmed soon. And Sherlock's pale green eyes were shining with pride in a sudden realization, and narrowed with a determination like John had never seen happen in any one else's eyes. Suddenly John was analyzing everything about his flat mate, from his distinguished air to his angled cheekbones to his shapely lips… And the doctor shook his head and blinked at his tall, pale, lean, ( he tried not let the word _beautiful_ enter his mind), and newly awakened flat mate.

"Ice cubes." Sherlock said shortly, in that deep voice that made John's mind rumble.

"W-what?" John lifted his eye brows.

"The poison was frozen in the ice cubes. Easy." Sherlock wasn't looking at John now. He was watching the wall behind his blogger as if it held far more interesting promises.

"Oh! Of course. Brilliant." John mumbled, biting on his thumb nail. "So the murderer is the person who gave her the drink… But who? Her boyfriend? A bartender?"

"Her girlfriend."

"What?"

"The woman who told us she was an old school friend of the victim? A jilted ex who went over the edge when our victim turned out not to be gay and subsequently left her. Quite simple, really. Quite boring."

"So you're sure it's her, then?"

"I've known along, John."

"Th- Then why didn't you say anything to Lestrade?"

"I wanted to figure out how she did it. It was so simple, but it required further evaluation before a reasonable conclusion could be presented."

John sighed. "Guess we best get to the yard then, before she tries to get out of London."

"She won't. She has too much here to want to leave. A sick mum back at her flat, 2 cats, a cushy designing job. She's sentimental over it all, and she thinks she's gotten off scott-free. She'll never leave."

John smirked and gestured toward the door, jacket in hand. "Nonetheless…"

Sherlock still fully dressed from today's investigation, scarf and all, strode out of the room and down the steps to get outside and hail a cab, with John close behind, trying not to smile too openly.


	3. A DistanceWhich Forms Almost Unseen

**A Distance Which Forms Almost Unseen**

John was sitting on his laptop, updating the blog with the new story of the poisoned ice cubes, tapping his feet and humming as he clicked away on his keyboard, when he realized that he was quite hungry. He sighed, not wanting to cook, not wanting to pick up a phone and order in. Then he realized how long it had been since he and Sherlock went out to dinner. That sounded like utter brilliance at this moment. It must have been months since their last outing.

Ever since Sherlock's "death", and then the springing back from said death which followed, (after about a year, and John knew because he had counted the days), he and John grew so close. But barely a week later, John began noticing how guarded and distant his flat mate become, specifically toward him. Feeling that it must have had something to do with how the entire reason why Sherlock took the dive was for him, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, and wanting to protect them and what not, John let it be. But now, and mostly through the last couple of cases, John realized that a kind of distance had formed between him and the detective, almost unseen.

Sherlock had always been a very private man, playing the tortured, somewhat artistic genius mind locked away in his private quarters, or his "mind palace". But it was much more frequent recently, and still in his time locked away, Sherlock basically never slept. John knew this because of Sherlock's incessant violin concerts at 2 or 3 in the morning, the noises of experimentation down in the kitchen or one of the bathrooms. And Sherlock hardly ate still, at least not around John…

And it was then that a sudden idea popped into John's head, one that made his heart sink into his gut, one that nearly terrified him. Had Sherlock become bored with him? The simple doctor scarred from war and constantly taking Sherlock's abuse and hardly ever throwing it back at him? The loyal blogger who marveled at his genius? And then something much more horrifying came to him: had he sent Sherlock some of his odd "man crush" vibes?

Wanting to try and extend the olive branch, John closed his laptop and headed down to the kitchen, where Sherlock was examining s_omething which smelled absolutely foul _under his microscope.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock didn't even look up. He was too enthralled with the _something_.

"You want to go out and grab some dinner?"

"Not hungry."

"Well you never order anything any way, but, uh… I thought it could be a good time to talk."

"About what?" Not even a hint at feigned interest. Just a dead, uncaring tone.

"Well, just stuff. Anything, really." John had know idea why his face felt so warm. Embarrassment at Sherlock's disinterest, maybe?

"Too vague. Boring. You go without me."

"Oh. Well, I could order from the Chinese place you like, and we'll have leftovers. I know you like leftovers."

No response.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Never mind." John finally gave up and stormed off upstairs, waving Sherlock away over his shoulder. Really, he had no idea why he was so upset. He should have been used to Sherlock acting this way.


	4. Various Stenches In the Flat

**Various Stenches In The Flat**

John was incredibly displeased when he came home, (arms loaded with groceries from a very long shopping trip and soaking from the rain), to the smell of cigarettes and whatever chemical was being used to preserve the jar of eyeballs sitting on the coffee table.

_Most people aren't greeted by a jar of human eyeballs when they get home from shopping, _John thought bitterly. Out loud, he growled as he stood at the top of the stairs and glowered around the sitting room, his sights zoning in on the ridiculous man sitting by the window and yes, _smoking_.

"Sherlock. What the hell?!"

"Glad to see you too." Sherlock droned, not even looking at him. He was staring out the window, though not seeming focused on anything in particular. His ale eyes seemed lost in the gray skies, while he let the rain come in the open window on him.

John's angered gaze was then focused on the cigarette in Sherlock's languid grasp, far from the rain pouring in. Nice and safe. John growled again.

"How long have you been smoking for? I thought we said you'd quit. Cold turkey, remember?!"

"I changed my mind." It was as if Sherlock were defending himself to the air for all the attention he gave John.

John seethed visibly, then froze when his eyes rested on the ash tray on the carpet next to Sherlock's perch. It was the same one that Sherlock had "borrowed" from Buckingham Palace, placed right under the currently burning cigarette, and also contained about 6 others, burned down to stubs. John sighed, and his voice was deadly quiet.

"Have you been sitting like this since I left this morning?"

Sherlock's gaze flitted over to John for a moment, then returned to the nothing-in-particular-out-the-window.

"You know what? That's just great. I go out to work at that damned hospital in the morning, I work all day, and then I think, _oh, maybe I should pick up the groceries on the way home. Yeah, I will. Do something useful with myself to feed me and my flat mate before I relax with a cuppa and maybe watch some crap telly. _But obviously I can't do that because now the entire atmosphere is filled with damn smoke!"

"You only work part-time."

It took John a moment to wrap his head around that response. Then, with glower set on his face, making him look and feel so much older than he should, he said. "At least I've got a job."

"Dull."

That was it. One word that explained Sherlock once again missing the point.

"I'm the only one of us making any money!" John exploded. In response, Sherlock lazily turned toward him and then lazily blinked his eyes once, his face unreadable, eyes dead. This made John even more furious.

"I work so bloody hard to feed the pair of us, you git! Do you have any idea how- You know what… Sod this. Just forget it." John was giving up now, shaking his head, dropping the grocery bags to the carpet. He gave Sherlock one last, level stare. "I know how not getting a case in a while makes you crazy. How you get bored. How you feel useless…"

Something in Sherlock's eyes turned icy. His mouth set in a firm line, his jaw rigid. And, as a final act of making John's day unpleasant, he drew the cigarette up to his mouth, inhaling for a long moment and pulling the window closed with his free hand. And, letting the smoke out into the air, he tapped the cigarette on his seat and let the ash fall to the carpet, narrowly missing the ash tray.

His eyes never left John's the entire time.

John watched the ash hit the ground, then returned his stare to his flat mate. There was a very long silence where they just stared at each other. Then, John shrugged.

"I should have had them cremate you."

And with that, he headed up the stairs, into his room, and shut the door, without even glancing back. The flat remained in a heavy silence for the rest of the night.

Sherlock stared down at the toppled groceries with an expression that almost seemed thoughtful.


	5. Reconciliations (Kind Of)

**Reconciliations Between…Friends?**

John was surprised to find the groceries put away and the jar of eyeballs hidden somewhere out of sight when he went downstairs the morning after his one-sided argument with Sherlock. And he was pleased to see all residual evidence of the cigarettes had disappeared, almost as if they'd never been there. The ash tray wasn't even in the sitting room any more. _Sherlock probably keeps it in his room. _This thought made John sigh, and he wandered into the kitchen, reminded of the growling stomach that woke him in the first place.

Sherlock was sitting at the table, reading his paper intensely, with a bowl of toasted biscuits and some butter in the center of it, and, to John's amazement, Sherlock had a couple sitting on his plate and he was actually eating them. John tried to keep his eyebrows from shooting up and instead went to the fridge to find something to eat. Sherlock put down his paper and looked over at John, seeing how his blogger was giving him the silent treatment.

"There are biscuits here, John."

The way that Sherlock drawled his name almost sounded like an apology, which was ridiculous, but it was enough to make John turn around to face his flat mate. The two men shared a look, and then Sherlock went back to his paper. John felt his expression soften, despite himself, and he turned back to the fridge. As he opened it, he paused, and then turned over his shoulder.

"I'm gonna make some eggs. You want some?"

Sherlock glanced up hesitantly. After a second, he said. "Yes, thank you."

Pleased with this, John pulled out a couple eggs and as they cooked, he set a jar of jam and a knife next to the biscuits and butter. When the eggs were finished, he plated the food and presented Sherlock with his before starting on his on breakfast. They ate in silence, with Sherlock focusing on the newspaper so intensely that his eyes shown with that determination John missed.

Finally, Sherlock looked up. "The milk you bought was spoiled."

John stared at Sherlock for a long time. Sherlock's voice had been so nonchalant, but his face was a complete blank. Then Sherlock just went back to his paper, and John finally spoke.

"Oh."

"Yes… I'll pick some up before you get home today."

John was shocked. "Really?"

Sherlock looked back up and gave John a puzzled look. "Yes, of course." And he went right back to his paper.

John was obviously skeptical of this. First of all, because Sherlock never went shopping. Ever. And also because the last time Sherlock said something like this, he went and rendezvoused with a psychotic criminal instead. But he decided that if Sherlock changed his mind, he would pick up milk tomorrow. They didn't need it right away. However, Sherlock's offer made John smirk. He decided to take this as Sherlock's apology.

John was amazed when he came home to find that Sherlock had indeed bought the milk and that it was not spoiled. He also saw that Sherlock had got him some of those tea cakes he liked but never bought because he thought they were too expensive.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You really did the shopping?"

Sherlock strolled into the kitchen wearing only a sheet, which shouldn't have been that surprising but, for whatever reason, caught John off guard. He felt his face go hot and ducked his head, turning to hide in the fridge as Sherlock responded.

"Yes, of course. I said I would. Did you doubt me?"

"No, no… Of course not." John absent-mindedly reached for the tea cakes. He was beginning to brew the tea when Sherlock's phone went off.

"Yes?" He heard Sherlock pick it up behind him as he waited for the water to boil. "What? Oh, that's barely a 2, Lestrade! Don't make me leave my flat for that! Oh, come- Fine. Coming straightaway." This last sentence was spoken so sarcastically that John smiled as Sherlock hung up. Next thing he knew, Sherlock was cheering and jumping around.

"John! JOHN!"

"What?! I'm right here, you git!"

"We have a CASE!"

"I heard. But I thought it was barely a 2?"

"Don't be stupid! We have to go NOW!"

Sherlock was practically out the door but John called him back.

"Sherlock!"

"WHAT?!"

"Clothes!"

As if barely noticing his attire, Sherlock's cheeks turned the palest shade of pink and then he ran to his room. John repressed a laugh and turned off the tea, deciding it could wait till they got home.


	6. The Murder of Mrs Stewart

**The Murder of Mrs. Stewart**

Sherlock hopped out of the cab before it had even stopped moving, and John sighed as he passed some cash up to the cabbie before following his flat mate. Sherlock had strolled up to the police tape and was having a quick exchange with Sally Donovan, a particularly cold woman of the force. And too young to be so.

"Hey, freak!" She feigned cheerfulness at the sight of the tall man.

John always found her fake smile to be way too convincing, almost as if she'd never learned to smile for any reason aside from sarcasm and pride in hurtful comment she'd thrown out.

Sherlock barely glanced at her as he hopped deftly over the yellow tape. She turned and followed him, leaving John to awkwardly lift the tape up and duck under. He straightened out his jumper before hurrying after the others down an alley. A rather spacious alley, where a middle-aged woman lay with a bullet in her head, surrounded by police with flashlights out and searching due to the dark at this time of night.

Upon seeing John walking up, Donovan tisked at Sherlock.

"Walking off without your boyfriend, freak? Not very polite of you to leave him like that."

Sherlock was too busy with the body to even look up at her, but John shot her a nice glare as he passed, stopping to stand next to the detective. Lestrade came strolling up, rubbing his eyes wearily. His voice sounded tired and gravelly, as always.

"Sarah Stewart, 48, wife of Congressman Jameson Stewart. Her mother lives in the apartment up there…" He stopped and pointed up toward a window high above and at the right. "…and she was using this alley as a quick way to the street. We've ruled out a mugger, because nothing's been taken from her that we can tell. But I assume you could tell us differently?"

"Nothing taken. No sign of struggle. She never saw her attacker." Sherlock spoke so plainly and shortly, that no one would notice how he had stiffened upon realizing something that must have been unsettling to him. But John noticed, and felt an unease settle in his gut.

"Murder, then?" Lestrade droned, pulling out his phone.

"Assassination."

Lestrade's eyes went round. "What?"

"Look at where the bullet's hit her, right in the back of the head, but making a near perfect circle through the skull." He smirked up at Lestrade and spoke dryly, "One of the prettiest entrance wounds I've ever seen."

"That last part almost sounded prideful." John heard Anderson, from Forensics, mutter to Donovan, and she snickered. John felt like turning and glaring at them, but decided to distract himself with Sherlock's continuation:

"The bullet was shot nowhere close to her, and she never saw them coming. Also, at this angle, it came from high up." Sherlock, peered toward the rooftops, then suddenly stood. He started backing up, turning this way and that, then finally planted himself right near Mrs. Stewart's feet. He took one last glance at her wound, then turned around and peered up at the building opposite that of her mother's apartment. He pointed up, making Lestrade peer up to the left. "He was up on that side."

"Let's get up there." Lestrade muttered, but Sherlock was already scaling the fire escape. Lestrade shared a tired look with John before they followed the consulting detective up to the roof. Sherlock stalked over to the far corner and kneeled down.

"From here, he would have been perfectly concealed…" He put up his arms to imitate holding a gun, aimed toward the body. "And perfect vision… Yes… Yes, this was definitely his vantage point…" Then, Sherlock's gaze traveled to window that Lestrade pointed to earlier. He repositioned his arms so that his imaginary gun was aimed at the window. Then he stood, glanced about, twirled a few times. His gaze rested on a cigarette butt. He knelt down and lifted it up, examining it. John winced at it, remembering their spat from the day before. Sherlock dropped it again, carelessly, and stood back up, watching the old woman's window. "Shut… Curtains drawn…" He muttered, and continued muttering.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and glanced down at the others, still mucking about in the alley. John sighed lightly and looked up at the sky. But his attention was soon brought back to Sherlock and his antics. Sherlock was kneeling again, aiming, bouncing back up to his feet, putting his imaginary gun to the side, casually standing as he smoked an imaginary cigarette. After a moment, he tosses the imaginary smoke aside, toward the real one, and then just stood there, staring at the dark window. He suddenly whirled around on his heel while Lestrade casually collected the cigarette butt in a little bag for evidence.

Sherlock clapped his palms together, smirking. "This man is a clever one… And he can afford to be, but all on his own time."

"Sorry?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"He's ex-military. And whoever hired him must be keeping him plenty comfortable. He's up here, aiming to kill Mrs. Stewart and her sickly mother through the window, but then the curtains are drawn. He's not counting on this, because the old woman's windows are usually open, as he would have been informed. However, he doesn't stress over it. Merely takes the time allotted him by this intervention to have a smoke. Then, Mrs. Stewart comes down the fire escape- notice her casual attire, hardly something fitting the description of a wife of a Congressman- and starts to proceed down the alley. Her mother hears a gunshot and calls you fellows. You show up and yet Mrs. Stewart's mother isn't down here to give you an account and you've not gone up there to question her, meaning she must be fairly old and ailing. Now, the public didn't know about her dying mother, and Mrs. Stewart didn't want them to, so she always visited her mother in secret…"

"But if the assassin was targeting her and her mother, why isn't the old woman dead?" Lestrade seemed so tired.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Because she's already dying. What's the point? Whoever hired our assassin must have caught wind of the old woman's state and told him to drop the target. She must know she's being targeted, knows she's been in with the wrong people and now they want her out, but they've decided to let her suffer instead of just taking her out. So, the daughter goes down alone."

"So, they were both involved with some bad people, then?" Lestrade pressed on.

"Her mother more heavily, but Mrs. Stewart must have been involved somehow, yes. And, odds are, her husband helped her along. Whether to get her out of trouble or to try and benefit everyone involved, I'm not sure… I'm leaning more toward the first choice. You really ought to question the old woman, see if you can get any leads. Then go to the Congressman."

"All right, then. The old woman's gotten worse since this morning, before her daughter came to visit in the afternoon. She's currently being moved to Saint Bart's."

"Course she is…" John muttered, his tone sounding bitter and tired, but it was so quiet that the other two men didn't seem to notice.

"We can get to the Congressman tonight, though." Lestrade continued.

Sherlock gave him a brief nod, his face a complete blank, his gaze determined but distant. John frowned at this while Sherlock replied, "Get on it quickly. He's grieving and probably devising an escape plan."

Lestrade nodded and briskly headed back down to the alley. John tried to share a look with Sherlock, but the taller man seemed to look right over him and follow the DI. John sighed and followed after them.

As Sherlock and John were going to hail a cab, Anderson sent them a whistle and a nasty smile.

"Off to shag after a fine date, you two?" He snickered.

Donovan smirked from behind him, not even bothering to cover it up.

John stopped, sighed and turned around. He kept his face was strangely pleasant, almost smug. Behind him, Sherlock had also stopped and turned, noticing that John had halted. John gave Anderson and even stare, a small smile, and said, "I'd just like to reiterate: I'm not gay. Sherlock and I are not a couple. And is it so hard to believe that Sherlock and I could have a purely platonic relationship and that I could hang around purely to be a friend to him and enjoy his company. Even work with him? And, might I had, keep a professional attitude in the workplace?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Anderson sneered.

"Well, honestly, Anderson, I doubt that anyone here would really care what you and Donovan were up to after work hours, but you could try to show a little decorum in the workplace." This was spoken only loud enough for Anderson and Donovan to hear, and was finished with a sweet smile from John while the other two spluttered like idiots.

John turned to Sherlock, proudly, but found himself deflated at the sight of his friend's face. Sherlock was frowning, looking down at John with something like disappointment. John stared at him in confusion, but Sherlock had already turned away and was hailing a cab. John hurried after him.

The cab ride home was very quiet, and John could not figure out why.


	7. Why Does It Bother You?

**Why Does It Bother You?**

The two had gone to their respective rooms upon returning home at 12 in the morning. John mumbled a feeble good night and a meek smile to Sherlock before heading upstairs, but Sherlock didn't even glance at him as he disappeared into his room and the door shut softly.

John sighed as he trudged up the stairs to his own room, trying to figure out what he'd done this time to disturb his friend. It couldn't have been because of what he said to Anderson, could it?

_If that's it, he's probably just mad because he didn't get to say anything first, _John thought. He sighed at this. Sherlock could be such a child sometimes. Although, John knew that Sherlock probably saw it as his meek friend trying to fight his battles for him. _But they were making it my battle too! _John seethed.

Needless to say, he did not sleep well that night, which made work the following day extra tiresome. Sarah would smile at him sympathetically, even though John knew she was just glad she had gotten out while she still could without losing John's friendship. And that made him smile.

After some quick shopping on the way home, John let himself into the flat and hopped up the steps to the main room, where Sherlock sat in his chair reading the paper. John unloaded the bags onto the kitchen counter and turned over his shoulder.

"Sherlock, I got some cookie dough at the market. Now, I know you like sweets, so let me make you some. Yeah?" He turned around fully to see Sherlock gazing at him in a way which looked like he was disturbed by John's offer. Then his face was blank and he just stared. John raised his brows. "Okay?"

Sherlock gave a quick nod and returned to reading. John nodded to himself before turning back round to find a cookie sheet. He didn't hear Sherlock stand and stroll into the kitchen, his unruly curls bounding about round his head and his face set in a blank, almost curious stare. He was right behind John when he spoke, making the shorter man jump nearly out of his skin as he whirled about.

"Why does it bother you, John?"

John stared up at his friend, gasping, his eyes round. "E-excuse me?"

"When people assume we're a couple. Why does it bother you?"

John's eyebrows shot up impossibly high, and then he laughed the most uncomfortable laugh. It was so uncomfortable that when he heard it come from himself, he grimaced. He stared up at Sherlock for a second, then hurriedly walked around the taller man to retrieve the cookie dough.

"W-well, because I'm not gay, Sherlock."

"Well you know that, so why care what anyone else thinks?"

"Remember when my last date was?"

"No…"

"Exactly." His stare was very level, considering how far he had to look up.

Sherlock frowned. "Why even bother having a relationship? Such a waste of time."

John's smile didn't fit with his mood, and it felt unnatural. "Not to most people."

When Sherlock's face didn't change, John shrugged and turned back to the dough. But Sherlock was not giving up.

"But what about when people refer to you and I specifically?"

This question was spoken so quietly, almost shyly, and it forced John to turn around again and face his friend. Sherlock looked like he was fighting to keep his face straight. John was very confused, and a strange feeling was nesting in his stomach that he found slightly unsettling.

"Well… Sherlock, it wasn't even till I met you that people starting thinking that. And we both know you're 'married to your work'…" John couldn't help but laugh at the memory of when Sherlock first said that him. "So I figure you wouldn't want people thinking anything could distract you from what you find most important… I guess." John swallowed audibly as he waited for a response.

Sherlock's face went blank as he nodded slowly. Then he just frowned again. "John, I don't care what people think of me. Why should you worry over my public image?" Sherlock seemed like he was trying to speak very carefully.

John blinked a few times. "Uh… It's not really just _your_ public image any more, Sherlock. It's _ours_. You understand?"

Sherlock blinked once, then tilted his head a bit, as if expecting more of an explanation. John sighed.

"I'd just rather that no one thought that you and I were more than platonic, is all. I mean, I'm not getting any younger. And I would love to get married, have kids, you know…"

"Have a life." Sherlock said shortly. "A life away from chasing down murderers and body parts by the food and… And away from me."

John shook his head quickly. "No, no, no, Sherlock, I always want you in my life. I barely had one before you came along! No matter what, you will always be my best friend. You're more family to me than Harry is, that's for sure."

A silence hung around them, and John found it quite awkward. But Sherlock seemed unfazed. John finally sighed.

"Now. Do you want cookies or what?"

After a long moment, Sherlock smirked and said, "Sure."

John nodded, managed a smile. "Great. I'll start on that."

Sherlock strolled away to his chair again, picking his paper back up, though John doubted he was actually reading it. John kind of smirked to himself before throwing himself into the baking. While the cookies were in the oven and John was cleaning up, he called to Sherlock over his shoulder.

"Why doesn't it bother you, Sherlock?"

John didn't look back in time to see Sherlock's sad smile. By the time he saw his friend's face, it was blank, serene mask.

"As I said before, John. I don't care." This was followed by a confident smirk.


	8. Ms Bingham

**Meeting The Mother**

John didn't particularly enjoy having his days off overrun by cases, but when Sherlock needed him, he couldn't help but jump to it. However, seeing St. Bart's made his stomach churn with memories he didn't really want to relive. He ignored the feeling in his gut, thankful that he worked in private practice rather than this place.

He and Sherlock walked in to a room and found Ms. Bingham, Sarah Stewart's mother. She was a very old woman, at least 30 years older than her late daughter, with pale skin and thin lips. Her white hair was wild around her head, and she sat hunched over in her bed, half hidden by covers. John smiled politely.

"Hello, ma'am." He waved.

Sherlock just jumped right into it, though. "You're daughter, Sarah, the wife of Congressman Stewart, was murdered in that alley. You know that?"

"Of course I know that." She snapped, her face cold.

John winced. She looked too sweet and weary to sound like that. Then again, she'd been through a great deal, was facing her final days, and now had to deal with Sherlock. John decided her attitude was justified.

"Well, then you also know that it wasn't just a desperate mugging gone awry, don't you?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

She sighed. "It was an assassination. And I suppose you want to know who did it?"

Sherlock tilted his head as John nodded.

"And how she became involved?" She spoke very slowly, carefully, and her voice was much softer, but her eyes were still cold. John nodded again. "Yes, please. We would appreciate it."

She looked between the two men before gesturing for them to sit. They did so quickly, and then gave her their full attention.

"When my Sarah was very young, I became involved with some bad people. Her father had left us, and we struggled for a few years before I went searching for help. And I found it, with a crime ring." She sounded bitter, shook her head. "Nasty men. All men, actually, I was the only woman working for them at the time, and life was very different back then. Obviously, I was not very well respected. My sob story about how I was left to raise and illegitimate child alone won me no sympathy, but the leader had a soft spot for me, made me and Sarah very comfortable, set us up for a good life. In return, I did him favors, which I will not elaborate on." The last part was said so firmly, and so filled with a self-loathing that John felt his gut churn at the sight of the indignation in her eyes.

"Any way…" She continued, waving off the unpleasant memories. "I continued to work for them up until Sarah's marriage to Jameson." She sighed heavily, shook her head sadly. "But the stupid girl didn't allow herself to break free from those men. She went seeking their help, asked them to help Jameson become a powerful man. You know, politics." She gestured vaguely to the air on the last word, staring into space.

"They granted her everything she asked, in exchange for government secrets. And also on the promise that she would have children, to keep the chain unbroken between the two families. Well, as it turned out about 10 years ago, that was impossible. You see, Jamie has problems with his…well, you know." She gestured to John vaguely, and he felt himself flush.

"Any way… The biological clock was ticking away, and soon, Sarah decided that she just would not have children. She became a little selfish, didn't want to spend her time raising a child… Like she had anything better to do… Well, a few months back, one of the men, a simple thug, broke into my apartment, told me I had to make Sarah change her mind, talk her into adoption or something… I said there was no way in hell I would be doing those men any favors ever again. This displeased them, obviously. And now, my only child is dead. I face death myself, and what have I got to show for myself? What did I do with my life? Nothing." The woman sounded disgusted, shook her head slowly.

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. Then, he spoke so quietly that John almost thought he hadn't heard right. "So sorry about that."

John felt his eyes go round. Sherlock was acting strangely human. John quickly pulled himself back together.

"However…" Sherlock leaned forward and steepled his hands under his chin. "I have two questions."

She nodded.

"Did Jameson have any idea what was happening."

"He always knew that someone was helping them out. But he did not know who, how, or why."

"Hmm… And who was the leader who had such a soft spot for you and now suddenly wants you to suffer."

"He is the most dangerous man you will ever meet."

"A name?"

"Moriarty. James Moriarty."

John felt his hands clench into such tight fists that his knuckles turned white. He tried to conceal his sudden anger, his fear. He looked to Sherlock's blank, pale face. He saw a flash of something in Sherlock's eyes, and knew he wasn't the only one unsettled by this revelation.

"Moriarty's dead."

Ms. Bingham looked very confused. "No… He is alive. I've not seen him in years, but I know it is true. He is very much alive. Still dangerous. And still very powerful."

Sherlock shook his head. "I watched him blow his brains out on the roof of this very building." He was trying to speak slowly and carefully, so as not to startle her, but he was obviously frustrated. "And he was much too young for you to have known him for as long as you claim."

Her expression grew dark, and she shook her head. "You watched the wrong James Moriarty die."

"Then who was the man who killed himself almost 2 years ago?" Sherlock's tone was sarcastic, and icy. Full of venom.

She looked at him sadly. "His son. James Moriarty, Jr."


	9. Feeling Snappish

**Feeling A Little Snappish**

Needless to say, sleep did not come easy for awhile. Not that that mattered to Sherlock, who rarely slept any way, but it made the drudgery of the workplace even more tiring for John. Sarah would worry, try to get an explanation through subtle hints in conversation. He was grateful, but his smile was far from convincing. She saw how it never reached his eyes.

He felt like the living dead dragging himself about, going through the same routine day in and day out. Dragging himself out of bed, around the flat, around work, back to bed. And all the while, whenever Sherlock was in sight, he was lying about in his usual thinking positions, or usurping John's laptop.

The old woman's claim in the hospital warranted some serious research, which Sherlock jumped right into. James Moriarty "Jr." 's parents had died when he was very young, and he was orphaned. Sherlock went to the very orphanage, scared an address out of a supervisor, and tracked down Moriarty's childhood home, which was a strange experience to say the least. It was near ruin since the fire which orphaned his worst foe, but it was definitely the place. You could tell that it was once quite an estate in it's time. He doubted the fire was a mere accident, and seeing as how Moriarty's parents were probably people of few friends, (obvious by how far from any civilization they had chosen to live; He understood that the house was built especially for them here in the middle of nowhere, practically), and of much money, they were probably the victims of murder. Strange that Moriarty's father, (the late James Moriarty, Sr.), being such a "dangerous" and, most likely, paranoid (if his son was anything to go by) man, would be caught and killed in his own home. An escape could have been possible…

But no. Bodies had been recovered and everything. Then again, Sherlock's body had been recovered and that had turned out quite surprisingly. But then, the man had never been heard or seen again. Sherlock had come back after a year of seclusion in his hunt for the rest of Moriarty (Jr.'s) web of informants, spies and assassins. He realized now, quite bitterly, that that had probably been all for naught, thanks to this new revelation brought on by Ms. Bingham's claim.

Sherlock remembered how he'd blown off John's terror at the thought of an older, wiser, crazier Moriarty running around and probably watching them. He'd given a short laugh and said, "She's a very old woman, John. And ill, to boot, as well as mourning her daughter's death."

And John had said, incredulously, "So, you don't think this warrants some investigation?"

Sherlock had rolled his eyes. "I'll look into it."

He'd tried to have John think there was no worry, no danger. Ms. Bingham had seemed so sure, though, and he knew John would not ignore that. He knew he couldn't get John to sleep, get him to smile. After everything Moriarty had put them through, the possibility of the man who _created _their worst foe posing a bigger threat was too much. Sherlock tried as subtly as he could to ease John's mind, but with no results. He heard John toss and turn, heard the soft padding of his feet as he paced, pretended to be his mind palace when John snuck out to the kitchen, or just walked around the flat while he thought Sherlock wouldn't notice him. Sherlock hid his aggravation, not wanting John to know what a distraction he was, knowing John didn't want Sherlock to see him "weak".

John was a soldier. He was much stronger than most people, and at the same time so much gentler. He needed love which he obviously never got as a child. And, while John practically wore his heart on his sleeve, he was still full of secrets. This bothered Sherlock to no end. He was so intrigued by how enigmatic and yet how simple his flat mate was. No matter how long they'd known each other, Sherlock was still constantly learning new things about John. It was exciting and also strange and annoying. Usually he'd have people figured out within half a minute of meeting them, less than that if he was wanting to impress, which was rare. But not with John.

Sherlock was just waiting to find out that John was crazy. He was almost sure that there was something fundamentally wrong with John, since he hadn't run and hid upon meeting Sherlock like most did. He hadn't been frightened or angered by Sherlock's behavior. He'd damn near embraced it. He'd even run around after a murderous cabby with Sherlock on their first night living together, and John hadn't even officially moved in yet. Not that John brought much in with him…

And John was very protective of Sherlock. That was another thing he noticed. And Sherlock felt fiercely protective in return, almost in a territorial manner. He knew John would take a bullet for him, and he reciprocated that, which was strange. He knew John would follow him through anything, no matter the danger or the drudgery. He knew John would always be loyal to him, which he'd never experienced from anyone before. And he also knew that he felt exactly the same for his flat mate.

It was as if he and John were tied together. And this revelation was terrifying, exciting, and sickening all at once. And distracting. Sherlock's thoughts were a muddle, riddled with thousands of thoughts flitting about, new revelations, memories searching for possibilities, _feelings_. He felt his nose wrinkle at the thought. And idea would reach out to him, and just as he went to grasp it, it ran away and disappeared, overrun with these musings over his John.

…

_His John?_

Sherlock sighed, disrupted the damned calm that had settled over the apartment. Calm was so boring. And he was particularly restless today, and unable to think, which made it worse. Mrs. Hudson had confiscated his gun. They were no closer to catching the assassin. There could have been a crazed murderous crime lord after him right this minute, though there was no evidence aside from the claim of a dying old woman. He had no experiments up, and he didn't feel like going to get one from Molly. And John was at work.

He supposed he could eat something…

Nah.

He sighed again, and felt a great release. _Ridiculous._

But he found it so enjoyable that he continued to sigh in the most dramatic way possible, feeling the exercise heave his shoulders up and down. At every intake of breath, his shoulders rose. At every sigh, they rolled down.

In… Out…

Up… Down…

The motion was so relaxing in such a strange way that he just examined it for a while, forgetting about the time passing and the endless thoughts and nagging _feelings_. He felt relaxed, lounging lazily in his chair, legs sprawled out ahead of him, head hanging back. Sighing exasperatedly, closing his eyes.

He almost missed the door opening downstairs. He hopped up and strolled deftly over to the couch. He stretched out on it, in his thinking pose, pretending to escape to his mind palace just as John came in. He knew John had paused in the doorway and was now sighing at the sight of his comatose flat mate. (This was the exact position Sherlock had been in when John left this morning.) The rustle of paper and the sound of the door being kicked meant that John had been shopping, and this was proven when he heard John trudge over to the kitchen and drop the bags on the counter. There was a flick of a switch and then some humming, and he was aware that John was cooking. Which was strange. Sherlock sniffed experimentally. Chicken. Onions. Potatoes, garlic, thyme… Possibly rosemary. The obvious salt and pepper. Maybe some paprika? Sherlock furrowed his brow, knowing John couldn't see him. (To face the stove, his back would be to the couch.) Why would John cook?

He went back to ignoring everything, although he knew by now, after 36 years of life, that his brain could never do that. He was painfully aware of everything. Including how good dinner smelled.

_Just transport._ He felt his nose curl up, then relaxed his face into his usual mask once again. Why couldn't he focus?

"Sherlock."

He waited a long moment before he opened his eyes. John was standing in the middle of the room, in a damn _apron_, trying to look cheerful.

"I made dinner…" He gestured vaguely to the kitchen.

Sherlock knew he was glaring, know his twitch was acting up, _knew _his nose was curling up again. And he also knew that now, suddenly, John was no different than any other idiot he came across daily.

"Look at you." Sherlock sneered.

John raised his brows up, that stupid look of innocence and blank idiocy plaguing his tired features. "I'm sorry?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Just look at you. So sad. So pathetic." He spat out the last word.

John shook his head, looking utterly more confused. And stupid. Her pursed his lips. "Sher-?"

Sherlock cut him off, sitting up suddenly.

"Look at you with your little apron, cooking dinner. And you wonder why everyone thinks you're gay? While you prance around in your ridiculously hideous jumpers and baking cookies, that silly look on your face like you're some simple-minded child. But you are, aren't you? You're still the little boy who mommy and daddy never appreciated, the sad boy with the mean sister and the inferiority complex. You're no soldier. You're hardly a man."

"I'm sorry… W-What… What did I do?" John blinked rapidly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You decided to carry on existing, you poor fool. And you continue to care at all about what any one else has to say about you, making judgment calls over your appearance, your behavior. You don't change at all for them, yet you still care what they think. And why? Because you're still begging for the approval you never got growing up, you sad excuse for a human being."

There was no emotion in his words except for thinly veiled contempt, possible disgust. John was near his breaking point.

"Why… Why are you saying these things?"

"You're no different from any of the other idiots, are you? You try to understand, but will you? Ever? In your lifetime? No. So stop trying to understand. Stop trying to be smart. It isn't working, and it's, frankly, offensive." Then Sherlock jumped up and stormed to his room, locking himself in.

He listened to the long silence that followed. Then he waited while John slowly put away the untouched food. And he held his breath when John paused outside his bedroom door. John was wise enough not to try and enter, though. He listened as John dragged himself upstairs, locked himself in his room, and fell over onto the bed.

And he listened while John cried himself to sleep.


	10. Not That Easy

**It's Not That Easy**

Breakfast the next morning was silent. John helped himself to the left over potatoes and cooked up the pack of sausage from the fridge to go with them. He never glanced at Sherlock, who was in his position on the couch, as he ate. He remained silent as he drank his coffee. He didn't bother telling Sherlock there was sausage ready on the stove. He just left it for him, and paid it no mind even after his third cup of coffee. He was feeling drowsy this morning, despite the full night's sleep.

He didn't even want to think about what had happened last night. He never wanted to; It would be a waste of time trying to figure out what had been on Sherlock's mind. Sherlock had even told him so. So he wouldn't bother. He'd already gotten over it. He'd done all of his crying the night before, and it had tired him out enough to actually sleep, though now he felt more tired than ever.

And Sherlock had absolutely nothing to say about it.

John glanced over at his flat mate on the couch. No movement. He looked like a statue. Or a corpse. John almost fancied the corpse idea.

John shook his head and washed his dishes. The sausages were cold now, so he stuffed them in the fridge. He sent Sherlock one last glance before heading off to work.

Sarah had been having him come in later so that he could sleep in a little bit. It was a kind gesture, and he thanked her, but he knew it wouldn't help. At this point, he'd do anything to be out of the flat.

Sarah gives him a gentle smile when he walks in, but he can see worry in her eyes. He smiles back quickly as he approaches the front desk, where she was chatting with a secretary.

"Any patients yet?"

"There's one waiting in your office." She nodded toward his door.

He nodded back and then headed to his room. A woman sat inside, around thirty, with sandy hair and bright blue eyes. He stopped when he saw her, and her smile was the most genuine one he'd seen in a while. He glanced down at his chart, trying not to look as dumb as he felt.

"Mary?"

"Yes, that's me." Her voice was soft and kind, and her eyes were bright.

She was pretty happy for someone in the doctor's office. He smirked a little before looking back at her, tried to match her expression as he reached out to shake her hand. She extended her own, and her lean, elegant fingers met his.

He smiled for the first time in a while.

"Dr. John Watson."

Sherlock had done some of his best thinking after John had finally gone to sleep, and it continued until John left for work. Then, in John's absence, he felt his mind go blank. This was confusing, to say the least. Sherlock decided to stop by the morgue to pick up a new experiment.

When he arrived, Molly almost beamed at the sight of him. He tried not to roll his eyes. He'd made an effort to treat her more kindly since her help with the fall. Especially since he'd told her that she did indeed "count". In a way.

But her incessant crush on him was annoying, to say the least.

"Need something from the lab, Sherlock?"

"No, just some toes today."

"Oh."

To her credit, the toes came to him rather quickly. She handed the bag to him, trying to hide her disgust. You'd think she'd be used to it by now, honestly. But, to be fair, her mind was stronger than most people's, although she didn't act like it.

"How've you been Sherlock?" She pried as he examined the bag with interest. How the smell didn't bother him, she'd never know.

"Fine, thank you." He said shortly, faking a smile.

"Oh, good. And how's John?"

"He's fine too…" His words died as he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He fished it out and checked the message quickly.

Molly saw his expression go from distant and cold to… Well, distant and cold but a little brighter. There was a gleam in his eyes. She figured it must have been Greg.

"Right." He chirped. "Better be off, Molly."

He gave her a quick smile before taking off almost immediately.

"Oh. Bye, Sherlock!" She called, obviously confused.

Now he just smiled.

At least she didn't try to invite him to lunch.

"Says here you were married?"

"Yes. The divorce isn't finalized just yet."

"Ah." John scribbled on his clip board. "And you think that could have something to do with your insomnia?"

"Well, yes. It's the strangest thing; I didn't have trouble sleeping till Troy moved in. It's gotten worse since we decided to get a divorce."

John sighed. "Well, there's not really much reason to think your insomnia and your divorce are related, though it would make sense. You can't think of any other reason?"

"My sister was murdered just a few months after Troy and I moved in together."

"Murdered?"

"Yes, in her apartment… Most brutal thing I've ever seen… Her name was Cathy."

"Cathy?"

"Yes; She lived alone in her flat, you see. She wasn't married."

"I know. My flat mate's the detective who solved that case. Her death was a real shame…" John slowed his words to an awkward stop.

"I thought I recognized you!" She exclaimed, surprising him.

He looked up at her.

"You're the one who writes the blog about Sherlock Holmes!" She was beaming. "I thought I remembered your face from the investigation! Oh, you wrote about my sisters' case so wonderfully. I remember being so thankful when I read it. Cathy would have really appreciated it…" She quieted down as her last sentence ended, but he smile hardly waned.

He smiled at her. "Well it was a truly remarkable case, and incredibly horrifying." He laughed uncomfortably. "It deserved recognition."

"I'm glad you and Mr. Holmes put the psycho behind bars." Her tone was serious so suddenly that John took a moment to adjust before saying, "So am I."

She smiled again fully, her eyes sparkling.

_She's an odd one… _He smirked. _But she's stable…_

"I'll just give you this prescription for some sedatives, mild ones. And here's my personal number and email, so you can contact me if there are any changes, good or bad."

Her smile turned to a smirk. "Well, maybe I should give you my information, too."

He laughed. "I don't think that's necessary. I have your work email and phone right here… Oh."

She giggled. His face must have looked pretty funny. He tried to straighten himself out, clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry, um… I just don't think that would be very appropriate… I mean, uh… You're a patient, and… And you're going through a divorce, and… Well, you know…"

She nodded, still looking pleasant. Her eyes shone with understanding. "I know. It was a long shot, any way."

He nodded slowly, but his smile didn't falter.

She motioned toward the clip board. "But you have my work information, and I have yours, so… We'll be in touch? Strictly on a professional level, of course."

She was teasing him, obviously. She was trying to hide how uncomfortable she felt. It took everything in John's power not to laugh outright. He gave her a grin.

"Well, I'm available to talk about anything you want, Mary. As a friend."

Her smile was truly heartwarming.

Sherlock was just pulling the toes out of the fridge when John came home.

The silence felt tangible.

John was digging around for leftovers as Sherlock worked at the toes with different kinds of acid. The two worked in silence.

About 20 minutes later, John was washing his dishes. Sherlock paid him no mind.

It wasn't until John started heading upstairs that Sherlock spoke.

"I'm sorry for last night."

John paused before turning back and walking into the kitchen. He watched Sherlock for a moment, and Sherlock did nothing to indicate that he'd even spoken. John shook his head. An apology from Sherlock was a rare thing, and not something to be taken for granted. But this time, John didn't really appreciate it.

"Well, Sherlock…" He sighed, rubbed his hands over his face. When he looked back at Sherlock, he was watching John intently. "Sometimes an apology doesn't cut it."

John started to walk away. He reached the middle of the main room before he heard Sherlock again.

"Why not?" Sherlock called to him, sounding genuinely curious.

John thought it over. He shook his head and sighed. "Sometimes it just isn't that easy, Sherlock."

Then John went up to bed, leaving Sherlock to his own musings.


	11. Scary Revelations

**Frightening New Revelations**

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You're good at haircuts, yes?"

"I suppose. I cut my own hair."

Sherlock eyed John's head with a strange look. John rolled his eyes.

"Well, obviously I wouldn't cut yours like mine, would I?"

"Thankfully, no." Sherlock's attention rolled back to his newspaper.

"So what do you want me to do for you?"

"Just a trim."

John nodded. "Alright. Let's do it then."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to him, alarmed. "Now?"

"Yes, now. Why not now? Come on, grab a chair and bring it to the loo."

Sherlock looked almost disdainful as he did what John asked. Things had been odd between the two of them for a while, but it had gotten worse with Sherlock's outburst from the previous week, and John's subsequent denial of Sherlock's apology. Things were quiet most of the time for the two, and their restlessness over the new case didn't make the uncomfortable air any lighter. They were no closer to finding their assassin, because there had been no more victims, and Ms. Stewart's autopsy brought nothing helpful. Whoever they were dealing with, he was good at his job.

John snipped away at Sherlock's curls, trying to hide how sad he was to see them go. Ironic how he'd been so distressed at how Sherlock would be wanting to cut the unruly locks, and now he was the one cutting them. John's frown must have been evident, because when he looked up, Sherlock was eyeing him in the mirror. John gave him a tight smile, but Sherlock's face remained like a mask. John went back to snipping.

Sherlock's phone buzzed on the counter. Sherlock swiped it up, held it out of John's view and checked the message. John rolled his eyes. As if he would read Sherlock's messages. Sherlock turned his phone back off and placed it back on the counter without replying.

"Lestrade?" John asked.

"No."

"Oh. Who was it?"

"Wrong number."

"Right…" John's snipping slowed to a stop. "Finished. You like it?"

"It'll do." Sherlock jumped up, swiped his phone, and strolled out of the room, leaving John to clean up his hair. John just sighed and went to get the broom.

Later, in the afternoon, Sherlock came running in.

"We have to go. Now!"

John jumped up and chased Sherlock down to the cab that Sherlock had already hailed. They clambered into the back.

"What is it? What's happened?" John demanded.

"Congressman Stewart." Sherlock said, and there was no further explanation.

They reached the Congressman's office within 10 seconds of arriving at the building, a secretary chasing them, shrieking about appointments. But Sherlock was unstoppable, and he burst into the office. John stopped when he almost ran into his flat mate, who'd halted suddenly. The congressman's chair was turned back to them, and they saw a phone rest lazily in his right hand. John tried to glance at Sherlock, but the taller man was ignoring everything else aside from the congressman, including the secretary still screeching at him.

Sherlock crept toward the chair, rounding the desk and stopping next to Mr. Stewart, face blank.

"Sherlock?" John whispered.

Sherlock cast him a look which John read as disappointment. Then, he reached out, gripped the chair, and turned it so that Mr. Stewart faced the door.

The secretary screamed and ran, calling for security. John just stared at the congressman, then back at Sherlock. Sherlock was watching John closely, as if waiting for John to flip.

Mr. Stewart sat there, with a bullet right in between his eyes.

Sherlock's attention traveled to a paper sitting in the man's left hand, crumpled up. Sherlock reached over and snatched it, opening it up. He read the words over and over, his face a frown. John was still in shock over the corpse.

"John." Sherlock drawled, calling his attention without looking up from the paper, which he now knew was a napkin.

John hurried over to his friend, stopping at his side. His gaze followed Sherlock's and rested on the napkin, or rather, what was written on it.

_Moriarty sends his regards._

"The note wasn't meant for us." Sherlock was telling a distressed Greg Lestrade while John sat off to the side sulking.

Lestrade's eye brows sky rocketed unbelievably higher in exasperation. "How could you be sure?"

"The assassin would have had to get into the office after shooting Stewart. Impossible. Too much security, no one was seen, the window untouched- save for when Stewart himself opened it- and the killer was in the building across from the window, an abandoned parking structure. They must have someone inside the building who brought the napkin with his coffee. Question every one."

"But how do you know the message wasn't to you at all?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Did you see the look on that corpses face? He was terrified. The horrific realization that hit him indicates that he knew more about the circumstances of his wife's death than we originally thought, if the name Moriarty could strike fear into his heart." Sherlock's last words sounded like a growl, and he huffed in frustration, looking up at the near black skies.

Greg shook his head. "Wouldn't this man, if he was really "James Moriarty Sr.", be after you? I mean, you were involved with the death of his son, after all."

"No. He's not like his boy, not one to play games. He would have sent the killer after me and John by now. We'd be dead. He isn't interested. He's ignoring us because we aren't a threat to him. We aren't worth his time; he's got more important things to do…" Sherlock trailed off, and Greg thought it was because of his cell buzzing in his coat pocket. Sherlock paid it no mind though, just shook his head. "This man is more dangerous than anything we've endured so far. Much more."

After hours of extensive investigation, tiring questions being asked over and over, much eye rolling from Sherlock and much silence and depression from John, they finally got to get a cab home. They rode in silence, each looking out their respective passenger windows. Sherlock saw the reflection of John's trembling hand resting on the seat in between them. Sherlock longed to reach over and grasp it, if it would comfort his friend.

Were they still friends? No, they were much more than that. But he knew John would never make a move. And Sherlock knew relationships weren't really his area…

But seeing John this way made him want to hold him. He wanted to hold John tight and never let go, do anything to comfort and protect him. Seeing as how Sherlock had never even wanted to talk to another human being previously, this was a frightening revelation.

He knew he would do anything for John.

It was two in the morning when they got back to the flat, and John was ready to collapse on the sofa. He barely noticed how Sherlock had uncharacteristically stayed behind to pay the cabby, and was now kind of trailing behind John, closing and locking doors. He was being unceremoniously quiet, and kept ignoring his buzzing phone.

John could care less, he just wanted to sleep.

"Well, I suppose that's one way to spend a day off. I'm off to-"

John literally felt his brain shut down as Sherlock's lips suddenly crushed his. The kiss was so forceful and passionate that John thought for a second that it wasn't Sherlock, but it definitely was, and that was why he found himself unable to move. The moment ended quickly, as Sherlock pulled back, his hands resting on John's shoulders.

John realized how much Sherlock had had to bend down to reach him, and almost laughed. He must have looked particularly silly, because Sherlock smiled unashamedly. The gleam in his eye looked the same as whenever his hypothesis had proved right in an experiment, or when he'd solved a particularly nasty case. Sherlock stepped back and strolled over to his bed room door, leaning on the door frame.

"I think you'll find it best to stay in my room tonight so I can make up for your wasted day." Sherlock smirked.

John didn't hesitate.

When Sherlock calls, you follow.

**END.**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE - DON'T READ IF YOU DON'T CARE!**

**So this was fun. Guess it's time to move on to bigger and better things…**

**I'm kidding.**

**This story's becoming a trilogy! ^.^**

**Yay! A Project! I never get to have projects! **

**Any way, thank you so much to every one who followed and favorited me and my story. It's the first thing I've actually written in a very long time, (No, I don't count my Tron parody, especially since it's not the original copy and therefore not as funny.), so I'm very glad it was so well-received. ****J**** And I'm grateful to all of you who put up with it!**

**The next one's gonna have some ideas from the second Sherlock Holmes movie, (**_**Game of Shadows, **_**with the beautiful Robert Downey, Jr.). It won't be a cross-over exactly, but it'll share some of the elements of **_**Game of Shadows **_**and hopefully prove to be very interesting, if not just amusing. I hope you guys will like it, and I hope you're as excited as I am! :D **

**Again, much thanks, and go ahead and follow me if you're interested at all in the sequals! Sorry for the cliffhanger!**

**NO SPOILERS!**


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